"Well, that is for you to decide. You shall see her presently and judge for yourself. At first sight I confess that I was not favourably impressed—she is such a childish-looking little thing, with fluffy, babyish hair curling over her head. But for her eyes, and expression, I should never have thought her grown up. She is rather like Laura Ridgway, only paler."
"Laura has very pretty eyes, Doreen."
"So has Miss Ward; they are quite out of the common. Aunt Sara took rather a fancy to her."
"Aunt Sara is a very good judge of character," her sister observed.
"Well, I liked her better myself after a time; her voice is deep, but I somehow admire it, and she read very nicely. She seems anxious to come to us. They are evidently rather poor. But——" Here Doreen hesitated in rather an embarrassed way.
"Out with it, Dorrie: there is something behind, I see."
"Well, it is for you to judge. I shall leave the decision in your hands. I think Aunt Sara is right, and that Miss Ward is a nice little thing; but she is Everard Ward's daughter."
Althea started; she was evidently quite unprepared for this. She changed colour slightly. "Are you sure of that, Doreen?" she asked, in a low voice. "You know how many Wards there are—dozens and dozens."
"Yes, and I never for a moment imagined that it could be Everard's daughter; but directly she mentioned her address—Cleveland Terrace, Chelsea—of course I recognised her. Wait a minute"—as Althea seemed inclined to interrupt her—"let me make it all clear to you. I put the question to her, 'Is Everard Ward your father?' That was plain enough, was it not? And when she said yes, I managed to glean two or three particulars, that we already know."
"Yes, but tell me, all the same;" and Althea's manner was a little eager.